


Swift and Cunning

by truebluemoon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Crush, Bad Flirting, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bickering, F/F, F/M, Foreshadowing, Hero Worship, Intrigue, M/M, Multi, Pining, Politics, Slow Burn, Solas is Sketchy, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truebluemoon/pseuds/truebluemoon
Summary: Lace Harding had many things she wanted to do in life. For example, the Inquisitor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The start of a very long fic which I hope to update semi-regularly, depicting some of Inquisition's events from Scout Harding's perspective.  
> What you need to know before starting: this begins somewhat after Here Lies the Abyss, Hawke's dead, Inquisitor saved the Chargers.
> 
> I will probably add more pairings as I go on but, for right now, just expect Inquisitor/Harding and Doribull.

The small, wooden cabin out in the Frostbacks was not built for the weather of Ferelden, much less the frigid climate of its famous mountain range. On the contrary, it seemed to tilt as it strained against the wind, snow, and rain. Its fragile infrastructure not only let the cold seep in, but it was all the worse for the wear on its surface. Every day held a new test for its endurance.

But, on the two-hundred-and-twenty-fifth day of the Inquisition, the cabin held steady against all odds. Much like its dwarven inhabitant, matter of fact.

In the evening, when the sky was already dark save for the green rifts setting it alight, Lace Harding sat at her desk, hunched over the dim light of the candles and a piece of parchment. It was not the creaking of her cabin laboring against the storm outside that distracted her, nor was her mind still on the poor souls her and her scouts couldn’t save that week. A cute villager hadn’t caught her eye recently. She didn’t read the copy of Swords and Shields that Seeker Pentaghast had loaned her. She wasn’t troubled by any of the new recruits under her jurisdiction (yet, anyways). Really, there was nothing diverting her from writing this letter.

But, somehow, Harding couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

She flicked her pen about in her hand, squinting at the page before her, which would have been blank if not for the “Dear mother” address at the top. Hours seemed to pass in the blink of an eye as she considered the day-to-day activities of Skyhold.

Would Mother want to hear about their spymaster threatening a scout for gifting her something made of nugskin? No, Lace decided, the woman had never been terribly fond of nugs and certainly didn’t dislike them enough to find the anecdote amusing. Besides, what if she tried to spin this as another reason for their daughter to quit and come home? She grimaced. Anything but that.

She could describe some unlikely success stories. The rebel mage’s mother they rescued from her kidnappers. The lovers they reunited who were on opposite sides of Orlais’s civil war. The orphan they escorted to a safe foster home. The crazed Tevinter cultists they stopped from terrorizing a village. Certainly, her parents could be placated with tales of all the good her and her scouts were doing.

Still, the rebel mage died before they could reunite him with his mother. The lovers had taken a few more lovers of their own while separated. The orphan happened to have killed his parents. One of the cultists had broken Lace’s toe. She set her mouth in a thin line, knowing that she could never tell them the full stories of her adventures. It seemed unfair, almost like lying. Even so, she adjusted her place in her seat and started writing.

She was just getting into the resolution of one such story when someone burst in, swinging the door wide open. The immense sound of wind and pouring rain and booming thunder halted her thought process immediately. She turned in her chair to see Charter slamming the door closed behind her, making Lace wince. “There’s a problem.”

Lace hopped onto the floor, “You bet there’s a problem. You can’t just barge in here whenever you damn well please.” She sighed, then. “What is it?”

Charter unraveled her thick scarf from around her slender neck and closed her fist around it. “Gaius escaped.”

Lace threw up her hands. “But we refortified the prisons!”

“Not well enough,” Charter pointed out the obvious, but Lace was already in the middle of her rant.

“We completely cut him off from all outside sources! We even redirected his contacts to a red herring up north! He was completely and utterly alone! In a jail with locks locked up in locks! How did that Tevinter wriggle out of his cell?” How could a man so isolated escape? They had spared no expense in keeping him locked up, having caught one of the wiliest Tevinter spies that the Inquisition had ever faced.

Charter frowned, though Lace had never quite figured out the difference between Charter’s frowns and her other expressions. “We don’t have the time to figure out how.”

“Right,” She nodded, steeling her face into something like stoicism. “We need to focus on getting him back before Leliana finds out. If anyone up top finds out about this-” It’d be the ultimate humiliation. The Inquisition’s spy faction, unable to hold spies! They hadn’t even gotten the chance to interrogate him for information yet.

Her eyes widened, startled by a thought. “Maker, do you think we could lose our funding? The Inquisitor already looks to Cullen more often than not. Something like this could-”

“Harding,” Charter reminded her.

Lace closed her eyes. “Right.” She opened them again to her superior’s stern expression. “Do we have any leads?”

“Just one,” The elf said, “Solas was seen visiting the prison last week.”

Lace only blinked in surprise. She couldn’t think the old, nebbish hermit had something to do with the man’s escape, could she? “Let’s go have a chat with him, then, before he slips into the Fade.”

 

 

* * *

As it was close to bedtime for much of Skyhold, many were settling down for the day. The tavern’s patrons started to peter out, some of whom didn’t even live in Skyhold proper but in one of the many tents and cabins outside its walls. Besides them, Cullen’s soldiers headed back to their barracks or, alternatively, the mess hall for a late dinner, and the servants tried to finish up their duties for the day so that they wouldn’t face reprimands the next day for slacking off. Meanwhile, most of the younger residents had already been put to bed by this point, though whether they were going to _stay_ in bed was another matter entirely.

Lace could still see a sliver of sunlight left in the sky when she turned to Charter and asked, “Why do you think Solas might want Gaius freed?”

“It’s anyone’s guess,” Charter replied. She walked at Lace’s side as they made their way to the Main Hall. “Based on what we know, there’s no possible motive besides the slim chance that he’s a double agent, working for the Venatori.”

Lace figured anything was possible, but this was still a major stretch. Why would an old hermit, who seemed to have little outward political ambition, want to bring back old Tevinter glory? Then again, they knew fairly little about his background other than what he was willing to share. Their spymaster seemed to think he could be trusted, enough to be on their side anyhow.

“But what does your gut tell you?” Lace pressed.

“That a man whose entire life is devoted to studying the Fade probably doesn’t want Corypheus or his Venatori screwing with it,” but then Charter sighed. “But, many people are driven to do things that’ll hurt what they love.”

Lace wasn’t sure what to say to that. Most of her life was spent in a sleepy little village in the Hinterlands on the outskirts of Redcliffe, tending to the sheep and making her semi-weekly hunt. If Charter hadn’t found and recruited her to the Inquisition, she would probably still be there, not knowing what she could accomplish if she set her mind to it. She’d be herding livestock, tending to her family’s finances, dodging her mother’s attempts at setting her up with various boys from the village. Charter, meanwhile, had years of experience in intrigue under her belt and was a fair deal older at that. Lace could only guess at what things someone could be so driven to accomplish that they hurt those they love. She hoped she would never have to know.

Right outside the door to Solas’s room, Lace decided to be polite and knocked. “You’re not asleep yet, are you?” She called through the layers of wood.

The door opened to Solas, dressed in his pajamas. Or were those just his regular clothes? Honestly, Lace could hardly tell the difference. “No, I am not, as you can see.” His eyes then moved to Charter, before settling back on Lace. “To what do I owe the honor of having two of Leliana’s agents show up at my room at such an hour?”

While he was being sarcastic, he wasn’t being difficult thus far. Lace counted herself lucky, since she’d heard stories about cagey suspects turning violent when close to being found out. “Sorry to swing by so late. We just had a few questions. Can we come in?”

He opened the door for them and closed it behind them once they entered the large circular room. Lace’s attention was immediately captured by a couple paintings on the wall. She’d never seen its like before, though, to be fair, she had never seen much art in her lifestyle. Stark colors fading into one another almost like watercolors, with composition that particularly drew attention to the eye at its forefront. Maybe, in another life, he could have been an artist, rather than helping the Inquisitor with his arcane knowledge.

Many people in Skyhold could have been a lot of things.

“I had thought that I answered all of your spymaster’s questions about my background to a satisfactory degree.” He raised a brow, skeptically.

“It’s not about your background,” Charter stated bluntly. “It’s about last week. You visited the prison. A Venatori spy escaped.”

Lace frowned, resisting the urge to step on her friend’s foot. Why did Charter insist on taking the most forward approach possible? “What were you even doing there, Solas?”

“I was there having a discussion about magic with Magister Erimond, hoping he might know something useful to our cause.” He straightened his posture, which oddly enough for the situation didn't seem tense at all. 

Probably hoping to catch him in a lie, Charter asked, “So why did one of Ser Barris’s Templars detect remnants of your magic there? That doesn’t sound like just a discussion.”

However, he called her bluff, “The storage of lyrium has not been enough for a Templar to detect “jack shit,” as Varric would say.”

Charter crossed her arms over her chest, the calculating look in her eyes more than familiar, “Think about it. _You_ , with a known sympathy for Tevinter slaves, sought out the ex-slave Gaius and, out of pity, released him, despite knowing it would betray the Inquisition.” Lace knew what she was doing, concocting some story to make sense of why Solas would do it. Either way, it would probably incite some kind of reaction in him, especially if they stumbled upon the truth.

Then, she picked up the book on his desk, looking it over curiously. “Or, perhaps, you were never truly with us at all. Maybe you were Venatori all along, and you just managed to slip through our fingers?”

Lace looked to Solas, deciding to play the good guy here, “Just tell us why, and we’ll see if we can help you out. No one has to know about your Venatori connections if you just tell us where he is.” He didn’t have to know that she was lying. Most likely, if it was true that he was some Venatori agent, Leliana would have had him interrogated, tortured (if necessary), and dropped in some pit somewhere, never to be seen again.

However, he just laughed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “If you talk to the prisoners, they will corroborate my story as witnesses. I suggest you do that before jumping to conclusions.”

“Yes, the word of people all facing death row or lifelong imprisonment is so very trustworthy,” Charter retorted.

Solas’s face sobered. “So their word means nothing to you if they’ve crossed the Inquisition?” Lace couldn’t help but think he had a point there.

Charter shook her head, “You know that if we find out you’re lying…”

“Then, you and your spymaster will hold me accountable,” Solas said it so simply, as if it were such a foregone conclusion he couldn’t hope for anything else. Or, perhaps, that he had such reliable tricks up his sleeve that he knew it wouldn’t come to pass in the first place. Lace was starting to get dizzy from all the second-guessing. How did Charter do this for a living?

She turned to Charter, then. “It’s getting late. We said our piece, so let’s let him be and get some shut-eye.” More for her own sake than for his, but it was more than the thought that counted, she figured.

Charter looked like she was going to argue, for just a moment, before she sighed and nodded. She finally set his book back down on the desk. “Goodnight, Solas.”

They left him to whatever he did to get ready to sleep, going out into the Hall to settle down for the night themselves. He didn't slam the door behind them, but she couldn't blame him if he wanted to. Not that Charter couldn't be lovely company under different circumstances, but, as it was, she wasn't there for pleasantries. By then, the place was practically deserted, hardly a soul in sight. Only a lone manservant mopping the marbled flooring, grumbling under his breath. Nearly everyone had either gone to bed or were already in their quarters for their nighttime activities.

But, then, smoke swirled about them and a familiar face formed right in front of them.

“Free, feeling the frigid wind against my face as I go from place to place peeling away the lies.” Cole mumbled, his voice nearly at a whisper. Lace could feel her hands close into fists. “I am Gaius, gilded in gold and gifted with -” Then, he gasped, and Lace’s heart stopped. What in the world was he going on about? Why did he-

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Lace and Charter were silent for a moment, hardly able to take in the scene. They were walking, and, all of a sudden, the most incomprehensible person they knew was just _there_ , providing cryptic commentary. Then, gone again. Once they digested what just happened, they – practically in unison – looked to one another in surprise. The two of them stared, eyes wide and minds full of possibility.

“Looks like we have another lead,” Charter said, breathless.    


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, something a little different.

When Lace Harding woke up the next morning, it was to the gentle rays of sunshine streaming from between the curtains, the faint smell of her scented candles now down to nibs, and the bitter taste of failure that seemed to color the events of yesterday. She pulled herself out of her warm bed, changed from her shift to her true blue armor, and set out for the day. After all, the world doesn’t stop spinning just because their star prisoner of war goes missing.

With a sigh, she - gently, mind you – pushed the door open and looked over the collection of tents and makeshift forts that dotted the region around Skyhold. They numbered in the hundreds, and that was just on this side of it. When the Inquisition first settled in Haven, there were only half a dozen tents, a few cabins at the most. Most people around were already residing in the area. It had come a long way since they moved to Skyhold and expanded their range. She wondered if the Inquisitor felt proud of their growth or just weary of the increasing pressure.

If anyone could handle the responsibility of it, though, it was Inquisitor Cadash. She was the kind of formidable woman one only found in storybooks and songs. Not that this was shocking, as dwarven women had always been made of stronger stuff, her mother used to say. Whilst much of Thedas were raising their eyebrows at the very concept of a dwarven Herald of Andraste, the Hardings and many surface dwarf families like them had only expected such an occurrence, as if it were as inevitable as the changing of seasons or the sun rising every morning. She could only guess at what Orzammar thought about it, but she assumed it couldn’t have been too far from the satisfied nods and smiles of her own family.

Of course, they ignored that their heroine was a notorious thug from a sprawling crime family, the way the Spymaster and Commander ignored that the warden they idolized was rumored to be a blood mage. Such was the nature of admiration.

Speaking of, she could faintly see, from a distance, Inquisitor Cadash with Commander Cullen, addressing the troops. Even from all the way over here, she could see how they leaned in, enraptured by the Inquisitor’s words. Lace smiled at that. The Inquisitor would go down in the history books as one of the great orators of the Dragon Age, that much was certain. She had the sort of booming, powerful voice that sent shivers down your spine, with a confidence that left a sensational sense of adventure. On top of the masterful use of word choice and delivery, it was really no wonder why so many felt so inspired by her cause, Lace included.

“Harding,” Scout Meric interrupted her flow of thought with the keen reminder, “You said you’d show me how to use a bow today.” Weeks ago, actually, having assumed he’d forget. Evidently, despite being so young and having the attention span to match, he hadn’t.

“So I did,” She gestured for him to walk with her as she started making her way towards the mess hall. There were no excuses that came to mind, nor any pressing tasks to send him on. It wasn’t as though she could dodge him forever. “Meet me at the shooting range at noon, and we’ll get you started.”

He grinned. “Thank you!”

He was an eager one, certainly, but she couldn’t fault him for that. He was a good kid. With the Mage-Templar conflict, the Orlesian Civil War, and Corypheus’s goons wreaking havoc, there was a shortage of those these days.

She jabbed a finger in his direction, trying to school her voice into something stern. “But remember, Meric, it’s gonna be a lot of hard work. It’s not just “pick up a bow and shoot at something,” no matter how easy that Sera makes it look.”

“I know, I know,” He said immediately, the way kids always do, “I’ll work hard; I promise!”

She waved him goodbye as he made his way to the kids’ table. Some of the soldiers and scouts and servants had dragged their kids with them to Skyhold, thinking it much safer in a fortress than out in some potential warzone somewhere. Personally, though, if Harding had kids, she’d send them as far away as possible.

She steered herself towards the table closest to the food, which incidentally always sat Bull’s Chargers. That is, whenever they woke up early enough to snag the table near the food. “Hey,” she took her seat between Stitches and Rocky. “What’s shaking these days?”

Stitches directed a not-so-subtle glare at Krem. “Someone decided to chug ten healing poultices because he was bored.”

Harding inwardly cringed, grabbing the pitcher of juice and filling her cup. “Are those even edible?” Curiosity took her; she looked up from her cup.

Now that she was really seeing him, Krem did look worse for the wear. There was his eyes for one, bloodshot like after a night of hard drinking. His lips were practically light purple, contrasting with his usually healthy-looking, tanned complexion. She didn’t even want to get started on the stains on his tunic that looked suspiciously like vomit.

“No,” He said miserably, folding his arms down on the table.

Dalish pat him on the back in sympathy, but she couldn’t smother her smile. “You threw up worse than my sister’s morning sickness.”

Lace flashed her own smile, “Aww, well, at least you can say you know what poultices taste like, now.”

Krem narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m glad _someone_ is enjoying themselves,” he grumbled weakly.

Rocky shook his head, eyebrows knit together in frustration, “This is why you should have let me develop that project I told you about!”

“As I told you, I’m not letting you drop a bomb on our friends!” Stitches said, gesturing towards the rest of the Chargers currently at the table.

“A bomb of _healing_ ,” Rocky corrected.

In between them, Harding sipped from her cup awkwardly, as Stitches muttered something about the Shaperate knowing what happens with Rocky’s “helpful experiments.”

Rocky gasped, dropping his butter knife, “I can’t believe you call yourself my friend.”

She set down her cup and decided this was the time to get herself some food. She hopped down from the absurdly tall bench, which was one of those things in Skyhold that was really more designed for someone taller. One would think that a dwarf as leader would have them reconsider their design choices, but, alas.

Still, Lace grinned as she fetched her plate and looked over the breakfast choices for the morning. At least the food was good. As the Inquisition was a multicultural effort, they went to great lengths to cook comfort foods from all around Southern Thedas. There were fanciful baked goods that could only have come out of Orlais, from streusels and tarts to warm cookies with milk. Nug pancakes straight from the griddle and fried deep mushrooms lay next to the pastries, the latter a favorite dish of Harding’s father. On the other side of the pastries were some Free Marcher delicacies: exotic seafood entrees from its coast, freshly prepared salads using vegetables likely imported from Ansburg or Markham, meat dishes from Wycome drunken in boatloads of Antivan wine.

Last but not least, she heard the Fereldan stews call her name. Rabbit stew, lamb stew, carrot stew, put-everything-in-a-pot-and-hope-no-one-notices stew. No city of Fereldan was going to be a culinary capital of Thedas, but there was nothing like the hearty meals of her homeland and a good dose of nostalgia to go with it. Immediately, she scooped up some of the lamb stew, a few fried mushrooms, a couple nug pancakes, and a cookie.

When she got back to her seat, she saw The Iron Bull sitting himself next to Krem, with his own plate full of food, and she let out a sigh of relief. “Good morning, Bull,” She sat herself between the now jovial Rocky and Stitches.

Rocky poked at the fried mushrooms with his fork. “What are you surfacers doing with deep mushrooms? Goodness sake.”

Lace slapped his hand away. “Hey,” she protested. “They’re the best when they’re fried.” As if to make a point, she popped one into her mouth and chewed.

“Yeah,” Bull agreed, “Everything’s the best when they’re fried. Have you tried one of those fried pastries?”

She blinked, trying to wrap her head around it, “People fry pastries?”

“Fuck yeah they do,” he said, “There’s fried everything nowadays. Up in Par Vollen, though, they didn’t let any of us have anything with “unnecessary fats.” Now, I guess I’m free to eat whatever I want.”

Krem chuckled, though his voice still sounded leagues away from its usual confident, throaty timbre. “That explains the gut.”

The Iron Bull frowned, “That hurts, Krem. That hurts.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor learns something new about Harding.

Lace pulled back the bowstring, maintaining her stance as she let loose an arrow from across the yard. She glanced over her shoulder at Meric, about her height give or take a couple inches, whose eyes lit up when he saw the arrow hit square center of the target. She wasn’t the strongest or the fastest or even the most cunning, but, Andraste’s ass, she was a good shot.

She watched him eagerly pick up the simple shortbow from the wet grass. Just as he took an arrow from his quiver, however, she snatched it from his hand and shook her head. “Slow down, kid.” His stance was all wrong. His feet were far too close together, and his grip on the handle was so tight she bet she could crack a walnut in it.

“Copy my stance exactly,” She instructed, demonstrating exactly what stance he needed. “No, a little further…” She adjusted him a bit, then, when satisfied, gave a nod. He nodded back.

With that out of the way, she handed him the arrow back. “Now, practice drawing the bow. I don’t want you shooting until I’m sure your strength training is up to par.”

He attempted to draw it back with one hand, only for him to grunt in frustration at the difficulty. Once more, he tried, with more effort. She watched him struggle for a third attempt, then a fourth, each with more effort than the last to no avail. Finally, he looked to her helplessly. “Maybe I need a smaller bow,” He suggested.

Lace shook her head. “It’s the smallest we have. Besides, it’s not the bow. You’re a skinny little guy, even for an elf; you just need more upper body strength. You know those drills Commander Cullen has his troops do every day? You should join in.”

His jaw dropped at the very idea. “But, Harding, that’s at the crack of dawn!”

She chuckled, “Here I thought you were serious about this.”

“I am,” Meric said defensively, straightening his posture.

She grabbed a bow from her own quiver and drew her bow with ease. “You know, when I was around your age,” she said, lining up her line of sight with the target, “This hunter was passing through Redcliffe, who was rumored to be the best shot that side of Ferelden. I decided that I was going to learn how to shoot, and, boy, was I stubborn. My parents didn’t want me learning about anything from some stranger, but I insisted and insisted until they finally said yes.” She finally let go, the arrow zipping right by.

“The training itself took weeks. Taught me everything I needed to know about archery.” She went up to the target and pulled her arrow from its center, then turning back to face him. “But you know the most important thing I learned?”

He shook his head.

“Hard work, Meric. A teacher can show you what to do to get where you want, but you get there on your own.” She wondered how many aspiring archers had given up because it hadn’t been as simple as it looked from afar. The fortunate ones, who didn’t need to learn, would have likely moved on to something easier and less exciting, like stamp-collecting or interior decorating. However, those who had to hunt for food or defend themselves either worked hard or died trying.

Her mind went to their Dalish agents, those who hadn’t been born with the ability to shoot fire out of their palms. If things had been different, would he have been one of them?

“So if I do those drills,” Meric said, “you’ll help me?”

“If you do those drills, I’ll have you shooting that target with your eyes closed,” She smirked, swinging her bow back into its place on her harness. He thanked her and ran off to report to his superior.

Just then, she noticed the Inquisitor, leaning her stocky, curvaceous frame against the wall of the stable. Lace had always found shapely bodies to be beautiful, but there was a certain something about the Inquisitor’s that put her a notch above the rest. She had these muscled legs, a bit longer than the average dwarven woman’s, which sloped with her natural curves. That wasn’t even getting to her full breasts, all covered in armor in the field but at Skyhold allowed to be shown off as much as she pleased. And, Maker, did the Inquisitor please.

Their eyes met, Lace’s gaze transfixed on the woman’s piercing brown eyes, framed by dark bangs and shapely brows.

Realizing she’d been staring, she swallowed and looked at her feet. “H-How long have you been watching?” She glanced up, curiosity burning through her.

“Long enough.” She smiled, a small mysterious thing that Lace was going to be puzzled over for the next few nights. “I didn’t expect you had such a talent for teaching. If I’d known earlier, I might have put you with Cullen in training our soldiers.”

Lace found herself smiling back, taking a couple steps closer, “But then you would miss me during your travels. Someone has to provide the scout reports.”

“True enough. How could I possibly go on without your charming commentary?” The Inquisitor's smile turned into something more mischievous, a cat's grin. 

Her face felt hot, hand rising to rub at the back of her neck. “Did you practice that one in the mirror or something?”

“Have you _looked_ in a mirror? Complimenting you requires preparation.”

Lace could feel her heart skip a beat. “Oh really?”

“Of course, it calls for just the right phrasing, lest I don’t do you justice.”

Lace couldn’t help it, then. She let out a barrage of nervous giggles so powerful that even covering her mouth with her hand didn’t seem to stop the stream.  

But, the Inquisitor was _looking_ at her, and Lace’s laughter started to subside because how in Thedas could you giggle when someone was looking at you like _that_? It was difficult to ignore the warmth stirring in the pit of her stomach. This was Inquisitor Cadash, of all people, and she was looking at her and standing so, so close.

“Anyways,” the Inquisitor smirked, “I had a reason to speak to you.”

She tilted her head in question, urging her to continue. She could ignore the insistent beating of her heart, for just a moment.

“We’ll be heading to the Exalted Plains in two weeks’ time,” she told Lace, “Leliana was busy with sorting out an issue with her ravens, so I offered to tell you personally. You and your scouts will probably have to leave within the next couple days.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harding has a confusing confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Harding is definitely not Kaidan Alenko's clone, ok)
> 
> Also, I attempted to expand on how the Inquisition handles their mail, as if anyone actually cares about that.

The next day went by relatively smoothly, despite the underlying anxiety Lace couldn’t put out of mind. The fact was, they still needed to find Gaius, and being all the way out in the Plains wasn’t going to help. Still, scouting locations was her job. She couldn’t just refuse, even if she cited Gaius’s escape as a reason, especially since it would draw attention to their failure. The only solution was to tough it out and try to schedule some time for investigating when she returned.

Besides, who was to say she wouldn’t find anything on Gaius in the Exalted Plains?

On the unmade bed laid an open pack, half-filled with hastily folded clothes. Besides her bow, armor, quill, and a change of clothes, she didn’t require much on the road. Still, her mother certainly worried regardless.

“And, don’t worry, Mother…” She scrawled down on the parchment, “I will be bringing a sweater.” She smiled in satisfaction as she looked over the whole of the letter. Lace set it back down on the surface of her desk and signed her name at the bottom, before folding it into thirds and slipping it into an envelope. She set the quill back in its place and closed the inkpot shut, knowing what happened the last time she forgot to close it.

“That should do it,” she said to herself. Just as she was about to set out for the mail courier, however, the door to her cabin slammed wide open.

Lace dropped the envelope back on the table. “Oh for the love of- Could you _not_ do that? The thing’s fragile enough as it is.”

“Harding!” Meric said, “Please let me go with the scouting party.”

Lace turned in her seat, not believing her ears, “Are you crazy? The Inquisition’s not going to be sending a ten-year-old to a bloody war zone.”

Meric crossed his arms over his chest. “I could stay close to camp, though! Your scouts wouldn’t even know I’m there!”

“ _I_ would know you’re there,” She countered.

“Harding, please!”

“I said no,” She said, which she thought sounded like the end of a conversation.

“It’ll give me the chance to…” He considered it for a moment, searching for some kind of appeal. “To perfect my stance! And you could show me more stuff on the road!”

“Meric,” She warned, “if you really want to learn from me, stay here and do those drills with the Commander’s troops. I can’t teach a corpse how to shoot arrows.” A beat. “Well, I suppose I could, but do you really want to find out?”

His shoulders sagged, defeated. “I… guess not.”

Lace sighed, “Why you even want to go is beyond me. It’s all just gonna be a bunch of angry humans swinging swords at eachother. I thought you got enough of that in the Hinterlands.” She didn’t remember him getting so excited to go to Crestwood or the Fallow Mire.

“Whatever. Fine,” He turned on his heel to leave and grabbed the door roughly.

“Wait, don’t-” It slammed hard enough to make her wince. “Of _course_ he slammed it.”

She shook her head and hopped off of her chair. As much as she hated saying no to the kid, it was for the best he wasn’t coming with. The war going on in the Exalted Plains was ugly, and the region’s history was even uglier. It wasn’t the place for a child. Then again, to be fair, neither was Skyhold.

Grabbing her scarf, she made her way towards the large wheelbarrow they used for delivering the staff’s mail. While Leliana sent her missives and private mail by raven, the rest of the staff often relied on the mail courier to take the wheelbarrow full of mail, organize it, then go to various other mail courier stations across Southern Thedas, which then mailed the envelopes and packages locally. It wasn’t a perfect system, more than a few of her letters had gotten lost in the process, but it would be much too expensive to purchase and train enough ravens to mail everything.

Lace lifted her arm all the way and dropped the envelope into the wheelbarrow. Letting a sigh of relief, she at least had that taken care of. The last time her mother didn’t receive one of her letters in time, Lady Montilyet was assaulted by an abundance of frantic letters demanding to know what had happened to Scout Harding until the mail had finally arrived to her parents. At least, the Ambassador didn’t seem too angry with her about the ordeal, though their spymaster was another matter entirely.

When she turned around, she was face-to-face – or, rather face-to-chicken’s-face - with Cole. “My Lace lying to me in her lovingly crafted letters, as she lives and labors for the sake of a world that does not deserve her.”

Ignoring that, “What are you doing with all those chickens?” Because she had to ask.

“I am carrying them.”

“Right,” She muttered, reminding herself that this was Cole, “Not weird at all. So, look, we need to talk about Gaius.”

He looked at her, unblinking. How was it even possible for someone not to blink, ever? She felt that it would feel too weird after a while, even painful. Maybe it was different for spirits, or whatever Cole was.

She frowned and tried again. “Where is he?”

“Thedas,” but then he continued, as if knowing that wasn’t descriptive enough, “but he wishes it wasn’t Thedas. Or rather that it was but called something else.” He kicked at the snow beneath their feet.

Lace chewed at her bottom lip, wondering exactly what that meant. Then again, that was assuming this even meant anything at all. He was more than known around here for leaving bizarre comments that sounded significant only to be practically useless. However, he wanted to help, didn't he? That was his shtick, his motive, his whole reason for being. 

“I don’t know what it means, either,” He said, likely trying to be reassuring.

She took a step towards him, deciding to be direct. “Cole, I refuse to play twenty questions with you. Just please tell me what I need to know.”

“It’s hard when he’s so far, but so close. The Fade sings with his presence, but, when I reach for him, it comes out distorted.”

She sighed, dragging her fingers through her hair. “I guess I was expecting too much.”

He turned away to leave, which saved her the trouble of saying she was going back to her cabin. But then, she remembered something important. “Hey, Cole, don’t tell anyone my name’s Lace. Okay?”

Instead of answering, he disappeared into thin air. She gaped at the open space, even reached out to prove that this really just happened. As her fingers closed around the air, she truly felt no trace of him. She could only stare at her hand, dumbfounded. Just to make sure he was really gone, Lace looked to her left, then her right. She couldn't believe he did this to her a second time in a row, with not even an excuse to leave!

“That was a yes, r-right?” Lace took one last look around. “Cole?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harding's life hangs in the balance.

In the mess hall the next morning, Lace spotted Charter in line for breakfast. Discreetly, she made her way over to her, looking over the dishes as she did. She tried to make it look like she was browsing the options and just happened to end up next to the elf. It was fairly difficult to keep her mind on track, however. The smell of the fresh-off-the-griddle pancakes and crispy bacon and…

What was she doing next to Charter again? She forced herself to consider last night, the events flooding back to her like the waters at Crestwood. Oh, right.

“I tried to ask that spirit boy again,” Lace told Charter, under her breath, “It was just more cryptic nonsense.” She watched Charter scoop up some hash browns and place it on her plate.

“He doesn’t talk nonsense,” she replied, keeping her voice to a mere whisper, as she piled on more food, “His words are more like a puzzle. What was it he said?”

“It’s not like I was writing it down,” but, then, she thought back to last night once more, picking over the conversation for about the fourth time. “Um, something about Gaius not wanting Thedas to be Thedas? Whatever that means. Then, he mentioned that it was hard for him to reach him.” She herself decided on rabbit stew, more to look busy than for any hunger on her part.

“Hmm,” Charter mumbled, then nodded. She lifted her finger to her chin, considering.

“Charter?” Lace nudged. Alongside the motion, she took some rabbit stew, which was nearing its depletion.

“Gaius works for a Tevinter nationalist,” she stated, slowly, “so maybe it’s a call for Thedas to return to Tevinter’s rule?”

“How does that help us find him, though? Calpernia’s other agents probably want the same thing, and knowing that has never helped us before.” Meanwhile, without even noticing, Lace poured more rabbit stew into her bowl.

Charter furrowed her brows, “We must be missing something.”

“You bet you are,” came a familiar voice that sent a jolt of panic through the two. The bowl overflowing with rabbit stew fell to the ground with a clang, spilling the hot liquid everywhere.

Lace and Charter immediately looked at one another, eyes wide in shock. “Leliana!”

Their spymaster sauntered down the hallway to them, her hood down around her shoulders. “I had to hear about Gaius’s escape from Cullen, of all people. And that man could hardly gather information about his _shoes_ , much less about my prisoners.”

“We thought-” Lace started but Charter interrupted with, “I apologize, it’s only-”

She held up a hand. “Don’t bother with the excuses.” Her Orlesian lilt, usually cold even by Skyhold standards, now held traces of annoyance, perhaps even anger. “Right now, our top priority is tracking down Gaius and the rest of Calpernia’s best agents for the sake of the Inquisition.” The scouts and spies under her long ago determined that their boss speaking with such a tone meant one thing and one thing only: Someone was going to get shivved.

Lace swallowed. “Of course!” She couldn’t help the way her voice cracked, all things considered.

“With all due respect,” Charter pointed out, because she could be frustratingly stubborn and stupid, “That’s what we’ve been trying to do.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Nonsense. You two hiding this from me – badly, at that- was for _you_ , not for the Inquisition.”

Lace shot Charter a look, hoping it would shut her up. She had to have known how serious this was, right? But, Charter being Charter, she pushed her luck further. She even took a few steps closer, invading their boss's personal space as if it was nothing. 

“Leliana,” Charter said, not like addressing a superior but like addressing a friend, “You once told me you trusted me. Is that still true?”

“I have far too much blackmail on you for you to betray me,” Leliana said offhandedly, as if she were speaking of something inconsequential like the weather, “Intentionally, anyhow.”

Charter smiled, slightly, a rare sight. “Me and fifteen other agents.”

“Just fifteen?” Leliana tutted then, almost teasing rather than stern, “You’re losing your touch, Charter. I have enough information to ruin half of Skyhold.”

“Then, I’ll prove I’m not losing it,” Charter argued. “Give me- _us_ \- this chance to set it right.”

Leliana looked her and Lace over, analyzing the situation with her cold, hard eyes. Lace didn’t know much about their spymaster. She knew about what everyone else knew: that she was the Left-Hand of the late Divine herself. She didn’t suffer fools gladly and was more than willing to be ruthless in pursuit of a goal. There were also rumors that she held a torch for the Hero of Ferelden, but how accurate that was Lace could only guess at.

However, right now, what she was _trying_ to guess at was when the woman was going to have her and Charter killed.

“Fine. But remember who you report to,” She decided, to their collective relief, finally, “And don’t fail me again.”

As the spymaster stalked away, Lace felt her heartbeat settle. Then, she turned and unceremoniously punched Charter hard in the arm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harding helps a friend and learns about politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some Dorian!
> 
> Anywho, I'm not sure if I'll be able to get any chapters posted over this week due to a combination of finals and forum modding. If you really want a solid date for next time, I'd say expect new chapter(s) by the 17th. After that, I'll be very frequent in posting new chapters!

While one problem had been taken care of, another had risen to take its place.  Soon after the Inquisition’s spymaster exited the mess hall, The Iron Bull was on the cold hard ground, completely unconscious and lying in rabbit stew. Charter was nowhere to be seen, to absolutely no one's suspicion, but Lace stuck around, of course, knowing it was entirely her own fault. The Chargers themselves flitted about like nervous moths around a flame, those who were there, anyways.

Krem looked around, immediately at his boss’s side, “Stitches?!” He turned to one of the other Chargers, the look in his eyes wild and panicked like a wounded animal. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Wasn’t he just here?” Skinner asked, tapping her foot with increasing frequency.

Rocky shrugged, “Think I saw him go to bathroom.”

“I can’t believe the chief slipped over rabbit stew, of all things!” Krem exclaimed, exasperated. “I thought he was more durable than that.”

“Do you think he'll be okay?” Dalish asked, looking down at the unconscious qunari. She poked at his bicep with her foot. “Does this mean No-Pants-Friday is cancelled?”

Lace bit her lip, lacing her fingers together. “I’m so, _so_ sorry. I had no idea he was going to slip on it.”

Krem’s hand rubbed at his forehead in thought, eyes still downcast, “Look, Harding, don’t- don’t sweat it. We just need a healer, make sure there’s no… Shit, I don’t know. I’m no doctor.”

“Kaffas!” A familiar voice echoed through the hall as the mage made his way toward them, “What happened- No, no, that’s surely obvious.” When he went to go closer to Bull, Krem stood in his way, protectively. From the way he looked at Dorian, there was definitely some suspicion there, maybe even something else too. Lace knew that Krem cared about his boss, but this seemed a little much. Dorian was just showing some concern, for goodness sake.

“What are you even doing here? Don’t you have your fancy ass meals in your quarters?” His arms crossed, he narrowed his eyes. 

“Nevermind that,” Dorian said immediately, as if on reflex. The fluid  “Please sit him up. We’ll require someone to go to the gardens and get us some Royal Elfroot and witherstalk. I have the rest of what I need in my quarters.” When they looked at him strangely, he rolled his eyes. “Restorative tincture, one of the few recipes that don't help mask any symptoms, and I can guarantee it is better than anything your healer could come up with.”

“I'm gonna tell Stitches you said that," Skinner said.

Dalish set her hands on her hips. “You would really help him? I thought you two hated eachother.”

Krem nodded in Dalish's direction. “Exactly. Why'd you even care, Pavus?”

“I wouldn’t want him keeling over before we defeat Corypheus, if that's what you wish to know.” Dorian’s mouth twitched. “After all, he is an enormous target, and that means less attention on _me_ when people are trying to kill us.”

“Figures,” Skinner muttered. Dalish kicked the bowl on the floor to underneath the table. 

Krem looked to Bull again, his mouth going from a scowl to a straight line. “Okay, fine. Who’d be willing to make the trip as quick as possible?” He looked at the people available, gesturing outward as if to ask for volunteers.

“I’m the fastest out of you lot,” Lace smiled, eager to help in her own way, “Don't worry, slowpokes. I’ll be back soon.”

“See?” Dorian gestured towards her just as she turned to leave. “ _Some_ people are willing to accept my assistance without interrogation.”

With a salute, she quickly made her way out, careful to avoid the comings and goings of soldiers and servants. Despite being wide and short, a horrid combination for making your way past crowds, she was nimble from her active lifestyle. She was even fast enough that she hardly noticed the way the sun shined right outside, a contrast from the dreary sky outside Skyhold's walls. What was important was getting those herbs so that Dorian could help Bull. At the very least, she couldn't claim her last day before shipping out was boring.

 

* * *

 

As Harding stepped foot into the gardens, she spotted two of the Inquisition’s esteemed employees, Madame de Fer and their Ambassador, Lady Montilyet. She was never sure how she felt about them, personally. As politically powerful as they were beautiful, the two women seemed a whole world away, a pretty and refined world where you could always expect tomorrow’s comforts and a retainer of servants to attend to your every need. 

Madame de Fer sipped from her delicate little teacup, pinky pointing toward the sky. “After all, Empress Celene is the better option, and I’m not just speaking as someone who’s benefitted greatly from her reign.”

Lady Montilyet set down her own teacup, “Oh, yes, of course! She greatly expanded the University of Orlais, imported loads of innovations from Orzammar, supported so many talented artists and musicians… I can’t see the Duke contributing to the common good nearly as much as she had.”

“And do not forget that she purchased several enchanted items from the Circles,” she took another sip, “While many of my brethren were unhappy with the so-called “lack of freedom,” they certainly appreciated the delicacies we could afford thanks to her Highness’s patronage.”

Sighting Lace, Madame de Fer waved and gestured for her to come closer. Lace blinked and pointed to herself in question. “Yes, you, darling. Mind fetching us some of that felandaris?” She turned to Lady Montilyet. “It really adds a spark to tea. I’d love for you to try it, dear.” Without even thinking of asking the herbalist’s permission, Lace walked to the pot and pulled it from the roots.

While she made her way back to their table, the topic of conversation had shifted. “As it is, his military prowess is all he seems to bring to the table. According to gossip, he’s really gaining ground among the veterans in Southern Orlais.” The Madame folded her hands in her lap, delicately like a proper lady. Oh, how Mother would have  _adored_ her. “Scout Harding, you’re leaving for the Exalted Plains tomorrow morning, I hear.”

Lace nodded, swallowing audibly. “Yes, ma’am.” She set the herb on the table’s surface. “We’ll probably have to fight off both of their armies, if they get the idea we're interfering in their warzone.”

Madame de Fer opened the lid of the teapot and slipped in a few of the felandaris's shoots. “So, you have not given thought to who you personally support?”

The Ambassador sipped from her cup and set it down on the little matching plate. “Well, I can’t imagine her supporting Duke Gaspard. The man’s a complete warhawk, and that hasn’t exactly done Ferelden any good in the past, has it?”

She hadn’t even considered that. For years, Ferelden had been an Orlesian territory, before the rebellion finally drove the Orlesians away. Every Fereldan, including herself, grew up on the tales of Maric Theirin and Loghain Mac Tir. A part of her always considered the era of Orlesian occupation done and over with, the subject of stories and history books that her former neighbor kept in his makeshift library. There was even a Theirin on the throne once more, which, for all the excitement of the common folk, didn't actual improve the average Fereldan's life at all.

Lace found herself fiddling with her leather gloves. “You think he would invade Ferelden?” The thought was disturbing, to say the least.

““Think?”” the mage chuckled, like it was some kind of game. “We _know_ so, darling. Duke Gaspard is very public about his plans to take back Ferelden.”

Lace's breath caught in her throat, her hands closing into fists. Suddenly, the air was thick and the intake of it painful, and her eyes stung like when she handled rashvines. She thought of her family, her mother and father and all their friends. What of the kind merchant Nilin with twins on the way? The doctors and seamstresses and blacksmiths, with wants and dreams? What about King and country and kinship? Lace tried to breathe in and out once more, the flow of it shaky and stilted. The stories they used to tell about the atrocities the Orlesians committed during the occupation were what she remembered the most, feared the greatest. 

Having finished her cupful, Lady Montilyet poured some more of the beverage from the teapot. “Would you like some, Scout Harding?” She handed her a small little teacup and flashed her a sympathetic smile.

“Ah, sure.” She didn’t want to be rude, after all. After Lady Montilyet poured the tea into her cup, Lace took a sip. Her mother had always loved tea, steeping some wildflower tea every other morning to the extent of religious devotion. Unlike her mother, Lace never really understood the appeal of it, but this tea was different than what she was used to. Rather than tasting like shoving a whole bouquet down her throat accompanied by a strongly bitter aftertaste, it was sweet and almost nutty, with a satisfying undertone she couldn’t exactly place. Then, right at the end, she found that spark that Madame de Fer had referred to, which she felt more than tasted. She made a pleasant humming noise in the back of her throat. “Thank you.”

“Inquisitor Cadash is a sensible woman,” Lady Montilyet stated, “Perhaps, she will do what she can to influence the war.”

“Mmm,” Madame de Fer took another drink. “Perhaps.”

“I know Leliana and Cullen are less than enamored with Celene for their own reasons.” Her hand rested on the table, fingertips tapping on the surface. “I’ll have to send a letter home, to see the general attitude of Antiva about the Civil War. It would comfort me greatly if I knew that the neighboring countries were supporting the Empress’s claim.”

“Either way, of course,” Madame de Fer said, “We’ll make do. Still, the Empress’s continued sovereignty would be most preferable.”

Both she and Lady Montilyet nodded at that, but Lace’s stomach still rolled uncomfortably under her skin. For the rest of day, there was this unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach, and her mind was unable to think of little else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought it was weird that there wasn't more discussion in-game about the Orlesian War, since many of the characters have enough connections to Orlais for it to matter. While Vivienne technically is politically connected enough to both Celene and Gaspard for it to not make much of a difference for her personally, there was definitely enough difference in their leadership styles and politics for there to be some political discussion with her. I assumed Vivienne has a preference for Celene, but that's just me.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, things have been kind of hectic.
> 
> As for the "Interludes," they're basically going to be shorter chapters from other characters' perspectives. Don't worry; this is still a Scout Harding story, and these won't be frequent.

By early evening, Dorian Pavus was finishing up the tincture in the Undercroft. Besides idle conversation with Dagna and the occasional grumble from the blacksmith, the hours went by without much hurrah. Thanks to Scout Harding, he had what he needed, and Bull would certainly recover, allowing the Inquisitor and her advisors to rest easy. Perhaps, out of gratitude, they would throw a party soon after, to celebrate Dorian’s good deeds as an example of what Tevinter could be.

He could also settle for a thank-you. Let no one believe that Dorian Pavus had high standards.

Therefore, when he waved good-bye to Dagna, he left the Undercroft knowing that the best course of action would be to hand them the tincture and leave as quickly as possible. Because if he was expecting a thank-you out of the Inquisitor, he might very well get it, but Bull’s Chargers? He doubted they would know good manners if it hit them across the skulls.

The walk from the Main Hall to the Mess Hall wasn’t exceedingly long, though that might have been his legs getting used to his recent travels. He used to despise long walks, especially ones outdoors. Too many strange, imported plants that he was allergic to. Far too many stares he couldn’t ignore.

When he arrived, he saw the Chargers still surrounding their horned boss, though, thankfully, they took his advice and sat him up in a chair. 

A man, with scars across his face and a sleeveless shirt adorned on his torso, gasped at something another Charger said. “He said _what_?”

Perhaps Dorian felt a little embarrassed that he never learned their names, beyond that of Bull’s lieutenant. This was not out of rudeness or indifference. It wasn’t his fault he was never formerly introduced to them, nor was it his fault he never hung around the tavern. After all, who would drink that swill they call liquor?

“That you’re not as good of a healer as his shitty potion,” replied the dark-haired elven woman at his side, dressed in some sort of green tunic over chainmail. Venhedis, did _that_ look uncomfortable! Dorian was no stranger to odd fashion choices himself, but he still made sure he could cast comfortably in whatever outfit he decided on (with some rare exceptions).   

The same man rolled his eyes. “No, Skinner, I heard you; I’m just asking for effect.”

“Should I skin him? Please tell me I can skin the ’Vint.” It was said so casually too, like how a magister might casually discuss a blood ritual with his cackling companions.

Suddenly, he felt less and less guilty about not learning their names.

Dorian shot her a look. “You know I can _hear_ you, yes? If you’re going to skin me, at least let me have some say in what I become.”

She smirked at that. “I was thinking a hat, with a red ribbon tied around it.” To be entirely honest, that was better than what he expected his skin to be crafted into.

Krem interjected suddenly, arms crossed over his chest. “And the cure?” He held out a hand then, expectantly.

“It’s not a cure,” Dorian clarified, “It’s just a restorative measure to help.”

“Whatever it is, then,” Krem said, voice clipped and curt as if begging to have this over with. 

Dorian set the tincture on Krem’s palm and took a step back. “Well, if that’s all, then I’ll depart.” At least that was done – and painlessly too. Well, relatively painless. That was to say, Krem wasn’t barking insults like his gardener back in Minrathous. Oh, how many times he’d been called a “useless Magister’s brat with less mana than a monkey.” Kaffas, he was starting to get nostalgic.

He turned to leave before a hand on his shoulder stopped him. His brow furrowed and he found himself turning back to see Krem's conflicted expression.

“Wait,” Krem said. “I just wanted to say… Thanks.”

“No need to thank me,” Dorian smiled, “but it is appreciated nevertheless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll become clear later on why the Chargers distrusted Dorian so much, if you haven't guessed why already.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harding goes on a trip.

The next day’s journey began with her and her team of about two dozen making their way down the Frostback Mountains, the rear dragging along a cart of supplies. While Lace had to admit she enjoyed the view from on top of the mountain range, to say Skyhold’s location was inconvenient for travel was an understatement. Of course, that was sort of the point. After all, its location could easily discourage the lazier and less prepared enemies that might want to attack the castle, leaving them to finding other less severe ways of weakening the Inquisition. Those who were motivated enough to brave the weather would still find it difficult to attack with full force after climbing up the treacherous mountains.

Even though she appreciated this as a member of the Inquisition, she loathed it as a scout.

“Is it true there’s gonna be Dalish?” One of her scouts, Reggie she thought his name was, asked his friend.

“I hope not… I hear they sacrifice babies,” came the reply from Rodrick.

It didn’t help that her scouts were trying her patience. Immediately, she stopped in her tracts. One by one, each behind her started to stop as well, until finally the whole trip was paused.

“Scout Rodrick,” she ordered sternly, trying to imitate their spymaster’s icy tone, “If you have energy enough to chat, why don’t you go push the cart?” It was difficult with her, though. While Leliana was certainly effective, she was also terrifying, and few dared to ever get close to her. Lace couldn’t bear the thought of them fearing her as everyone feared the spymaster.

That said, she had to force herself to avoid smiling at the way his face fell. The punishment was petty, certainly, but it also held a purpose. The cart was towards the back end of the party. Therefore, if they came across any Dalish on the way, he wouldn’t be close enough to start spouting off anything that might anger them. Even if he wanted to, he’d be too tired from pushing the cart to try.

With that out of the way, they continued on the path to the Exalted Plains.

By the four hour mark, they finally reached the base of the mountain. Panting, she wiped at the drops of sweat forming on her forehead, the hypocritical sensation of feeling hot in such a frosty climate. Next, Lace took a quick look around. The state of her scouts varied: some looking like they were about to faint from the exertion, others who didn’t seem affected by the trek at all. Out of pity, she called for a rest. While the worst was over with, they were going to need their energy for the rest of the trip.

She saw their shoulders sag in relief, and she pretended not to notice.

Instead, she went straight to their inventory to check on supplies. Thankfully, there were enough sleeping bags and tents to fit all of them comfortably. There wasn’t too much water left in the barrel, but there were a few lakes and streams on the way to allow them to refill both the barrel and their canteens.  

As for food, however, they only had enough storage of rye crackers, druffalo jerky, and canned soup to last them two days, if they really stretched it out. It might be easier for some of them, but she knew from personal experience that Scouts Lena and Florian in particular were big eaters. It wasn’t as though the rest of them would be content with nibbling on small portions, either. She herself didn’t like the idea of just having a cracker each stop, but it’s not like there was huge demand for less perishable food items back at Skyhold.

Most of the residents were Fereldan or Orlesian, the former used to home-cooked meals at home and the latter used to going to cafes and restaurants, assuming they had no personal cook of their own. There was hardly enough money in the budget for what they had. She doubted their scout division could expand much further on such little resources.

At least, she had some of her own money with her, though some part of Lace suspected her high paycheck was due in part to how expendable she was. But having money on her was something. She and the rest could pool their coins together and maybe afford some food for all of them at a tavern on the way. It might even help with morale.

Just as she was about to go discuss this with her scouts, she noticed something move in the clothes bin. She frowned and went closer to inspect. Figuring it had to be her imagination, she was about to turn away when, again, a woolen blanket at the top of the pile moved up and down.

Lace grasped the blanket and took it out. The pile went still.

Setting her mouth in a thin line, she grabbed a shirt, then stockings, then pants, more and more from the bin until she started to gain an audience. A quick look to her side told her that her scouts were starting to surround the clothes bin, eyes curiously watching her rifle through. Not one of them said a word. Finally, removing another blanket revealed the perpetrator, pointy ears and all.

“Meric?!” She exclaimed.

Lace ignored the barely audible conversations among her scouts, likely as surprised as she was, and took a step closer.

He tried to crawl back, only to hit the wall of the clothes bin. “I- I can explain!”

“Uh-huh, I’d love to hear why you decided to hitch a ride underneath the laundry,” She retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What’s the wee little elf boy doin’ here?” Scout Aileen asked, sheathing her dagger.

“I’d love to know that, too.” Lace frowned, “I told- No, _ordered_ him to stay home.”

“I had to go to the Exalted Plains-” He started, but Andraste’s ass if she was going to tolerate _that_ line of reasoning.

“For the hundredth time, you can’t! I know you’re eager to help, but right now it’s not the place for a kid! There’s battling factions who-” She took a sharp intake of breath, “who wouldn’t balk at _murdering children_ if they got in the way. It’s not some merry adventure, Meric! It’s _war_.”

“I’m not going for-” He started to say, but then he cut himself off with a scowl.  

Lace turned to her scouts, who were now silent as mice watching the display. “Scout Lena? Please escort Scout Meric back to Skyhold and make sure he _stays_ there.”

Scout Lena gave a small nod in acknowledgment. “Yes, Ser.” She went towards the clothes bin all nice and slow, with a patience that Lace envied. “C’mon, child, let’s get you back where you belong.”

Lace left her to gently prod Meric out of the laundry, deciding to look over the maps once more. Heading towards a makeshift fold-up table, she straightened her leathers and ignored the stares from her scouts to focus on her task. It was less to check their routes and more to have something to _do_  that wasn’t looking at someone she was so disappointed in. She wasn’t sure what else she could even say to his face that she wouldn’t regret later. Smothering the anger coursing through her veins, she closed her eyes and forced her nerves to settle.

Still, though, Lace had to admit, hiding in the clothes bin was a cunning move.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harding arrives in The Exalted Plains and tries her hand at diplomacy.

Their arrival was less auspicious than they had hoped.

Just moments after stepping foot into a clearing, they were faced with yet another obstacle. A human woman, wielding a bow, aimed her arrow straight at Lace’s face.

“What is your business here?” She wore leathers, allowing her mobility, but her metal breastplate brightly reflected the small amount of sunlight there was. Strangely enough, there was no official crest or mask that anyone could spot, as one might expect of an Orlesian, and she certainly wasn’t Dalish. If she was Inquisition, she would have recognized them. Her accent didn’t sound Marcher or Fereldan.

“Hello, I’m Harding,” Lace said slowly, glancing back towards her scouts before returning her gaze to this stranger, “Me and my friends are just here to check out the area. We mean no harm to you.” It was best not to namedrop their organization, not when public perception could change at the drop of a hat.

What was it Charter told her? Never reveal to your enemy more than what they are willing to reveal themselves. One of these days, she’d have to ask how she learned that over a pint of ale.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. Just then, Lace noticed movement among the trees, more rustling than one would expect with these gentle breezes. At first, it was just a fact that pestered her from the back of her mind. Still, the more she considered it, the more it bothered her. The movement spread all around them, until the rustling was all she could think of. She struggled to look her in the eyes with the knowledge that they were practically surrounded. And who knew far widespread they were? For all she knew, there could have been hundreds of thousands behind the trees.

“Celene or Gaspard?” She asked her, steadying her bow’s position.

A name came to her lips, but she firmly clamped down that thought.

Lace instead blinked and answered, “What? Neither. We’re a neutral party.” She knew who she preferred, but her whim was not the Inquisition’s official policy. As far as she knew, anyways.

“You support our freedom, then?”

“The freedom of _who_? Who are you guys?” Lace asked.

“You first,” She insisted, the arrowhead dangerously close to Lace’s neck.

“I told you, I’m Harding,” She said, “and these are some friends of mine.”

The woman let out a harsh breath of laughter that sounded suspiciously like Lace’s doom. “I’m no dullard. You wear *uniforms*. Uniforms of what, I have no idea. Who are you, and why shouldn’t I lodge this arrow into your pretty neck?”

Before she could even attempt to defuse the situation, she saw an arrowhead to her left, aimed at the stranger, the emblem of an eye on its shaft marking it as an Inquisition’s arrow. She glanced to her right, spotting another, identical arrowhead. Then, she looked up to see another, right above her head. Lace turned around to confirm her suspicion: her whole party had either drawn their bows or their knives, all aimed at the mysterious woman in front of them.

Scout Eva was the first to speak up, “We’re the Inquisition, and we’ll go to the Black City and back before we let you kill Harding.” Scout Florian, at Harding’s left, made an affirmative noise.

It would have been sweet, if it hadn’t been so very, very stupid.

“Guys, put down your-” But it was too late. After the first arrow flew, the clearing became a flurry of chaos and confusion. The stranger’s allies came out from behind the trees. From North, East, South, West, all at once. It was as if they had been waiting for this all day.

Scout Florian fell beside her, right on the edge of her vision. He was _standing_ and then he was just a flash of red and a scream in pain. She dodged the sword that struck him, quick as lightning. Lace quickly palmed her knife and slashed at the offender. The second slash collided with bone and incited another scream, another fall. She stabbed him once he was down, even though the knife was built more for slashing.

Deny him a quick death, she thought.

Another enemy ran toward her, and she gauged the distance as she readied her bow. She released the arrow just as she had her target. A wave of nausea and pride ran through her when it pierced the fellow’s eye with a wet, bloodied sound. She smirked. She wasn’t the strongest or the fastest or even the most cunning, but Lace Harding was a _damn_ good shot.

Just as she was going to tend to her scout, she heard a yelp behind her. She turned and slit the man’s throat, just as his sword was in the air to strike her. It didn’t occur to her that it had been so easy to reach up and kill him, not in the heat of battle. If it had, she might have given pause.

Since it hadn’t, she ran to Florian. “Hey, hey,” She swallowed, kneeling down, her gaze never leaving the wound. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

And she wasn’t _wrong_. It was mostly a superficial wound, just deep enough to require stitches. Yet there was so much blood, and it was spilling so quickly. “Oh, d-don’t worry yourself on my account-”

“Florian, do yourself a favor and shut up,” She ordered, trying for the Spymaster’s flavor of authoritative but sounding more like Iron Bull’s lazy drawl. She flashed him a smile and fished out a poultice from her pocket. “Just keep this on the wound until it’s over and done. If you die, you’re fired.”

“Aye, aye,” He said weakly.

That was enough for her, as she pushed herself up and continued. Thankfully, most of her scouts had kept the army at bay while she tended him, forming a tight circle around them. Her smile almost returned. Leliana and Charter trained them well, it seemed. Hopefully, Lace would be worth their faith in her to lead them. She certainly didn’t intend to let them _die_ on her, which seemed increasingly likely considering they were still outnumbered.

Immediately, she unleashed arrow after arrow, a neverending flow of attacks. Each rivalled the last in accuracy, landing in each and every target with a precision that would even give Sera pause. And each made a beautiful black-and-silver stream in the air, so quick the enemies could hardly see the Inquisition’s emblem on the arrow until the arrowhead pierced some vital organ. With every kill, she felt like the tide was turning, like she could almost taste victory on the tip of her tongue.

 _No_ , she swallowed, sighting more movement in the trees. No, she should have known. It had been too easy, too effortless, like dancing. They were now joining their brothers and sisters in arms, adding onto their dozens with nearly a hundred more. She watched in terror as they went into formation and readied their attacks. She signaled her hands to do something as a scout (Trina, it suddenly came to her, the girl who loved wearing ribbons in her hair) fell to a new enemy. Trina was barely an adult, even younger than Harding. But her hands did nothing, frozen in their stiff grip on the bow. Trina’s ribbon floated to the dirt.

She struggled to retain her breaths, a tangle in her throat.

As he turned to Lace, the advance was a harrowing reminder that some battles you win, some battles you lose. She took a step back, watching him invade the circle with the look of bloodthirst in his eyes. Some battles you survive, some battles you-

All of a sudden, an arrow pierced through his throat. There was no black or silver emblem, no eye-shaped symbol that screamed Inquisition. Her brows furrowed with the realization. Her heart still stopped, just for a moment, as she turned to see an unfamiliar group join in beyond the waves of the army. She squinted, wondering if it was her imagination or whether they were truly circling around them in assistance.

Her ears caught elvhen words, though she didn’t know enough to tell what they meant. By the circumstance, she could only assume they were battle commands - like _go there_ , or _flank her_. The confused murmurs around her only further cemented how unusual this was.

“Don’t slack!” She ordered, worried her scouts might let their guard down. Leading them into the fight, she joined the circle and slashed an enemy’s ankles where the pants ended and shoes began. He stumbled, now at her height, and she punched him unconscious. Of course, _that_ was just the warm-up. With a cry, she slashed another enemy, then another and another.

After that, each opponent started to blend together, simply faceless obstacles in the way between her and victory. Every time her muscles started to ache, Florian or Trina or even Meric flashed in her mind. She could picture their faces. She could picture wounds and lost limbs and goodbyes she didn’t have the courage to voice. Then, she’d ignore the stiffness in her limbs and carry on, even harder than before.

When the army dwindled down to a couple dozen, they started to retreat from Harding, her scouts, and the strange allies. On instinct, she looked to her wounded. Trina was far gone, but Florian would live. The rest of the injuries were small cuts and bruises, and her scouts were on their feet despite the intense battle. She frowned, swooping down to pick up Trina’s ribbon and slipping it in her pocket.

She didn’t dare look at the enemy’s wounded left behind. Not yet.

Lace turned to her team, “Scout Rodrick, fetch another poultice and some bandages. See that Scout Aileen has all she needs to tend to Florian.” With a nod, he was off to get the supplies. She sighed, wiping the sweat off her brow and turning to get a good look at these newfound allies.

All of them were elven, with armors that varied in appearance. They weren’t wearing uniforms, per say, but there was a cohesion to their attire, like different pieces of the same puzzle. Various kinds of leather, light cottons, heavy wools. Some even wore metal armor, but it was a lightweight metal, convenient for long travel and various states of weather. However, it was the markings on their faces that confirmed her suspicion they were Dalish.

Of course, she wasn’t shocked there were Dalish in the Exalted Plains. It was a common region for them to pass through or even set up camp. What shocked her was that they actually helped them in battle.

The tall one in the front approached her, “You’re the leader here, yes?” He had a sort of musical lilt to his voice, and his voice was high-pitched despite the age lines around his eyes. His tattoos were easily the most elaborate of the men here, dark gentle curves that twisted around eachother like vines and meeting at edges almost like knots. It had artistic value, though Lace wasn’t an artisan or painter.

She nodded, “Yep.” She offered a genial hand. “The name is Scout Harding. I’m with the Inquisition to check out the area.”

“Aerin.” He looked down at the hand with a frown. “You sure have strange timing, “Scout Harding.” You and your men were lucky we were passing through.”

Sensing the handshake was rejected, she awkwardly rescinded her hand and let it hang at her side. “ _You’re_ telling _me_. We weren’t prepared for an army like that. Who _are_ they?”

Another Dalish piped in. “They say they’re “Freemen of the Dales,” but all they’re freeing is their inhibitions to cause as much havoc as possible.”

“Well, they’re not exactly friendly,” She observed. “I’ll be sure to watch out.”

“Neither are we,” Aerin admitted, entering her personal space, “We only helped out as a courtesy and as a warning.”

She forced her face to remain impassive. Lace was not one to be intimidated. “May I speak to your Keeper?”

He lowered his voice. “Have you ever heard of the saying, “quit while you’re ahead?””

“Never heard of it,” She replied dryly, then slower this time, “May I speak to your Keeper?”

Aerin stepped back and shook his head, looking almost disappointed. “I apologize, but I have to inform you. If you and yours don’t leave our territory in three days’ time, we will take it as an act of war and act accordingly. If you want to negotiate these terms, Keeper Hawen is at camp by the riverbank, south of here.”

“I understand,” She answered, even if she didn’t want to. They’d helped against the Freemen. How could they go from saving their asses to threatening them? It sounded paranoid, nonsensical even. Still, to the Dalish, they were armored invaders scoping out their current residence. They simply had a common enemy. “Hopefully, I can change your Keeper’s mind about us.”

The corners of his mouth twitched up in what appeared to be a smile, or at least his version of it. “For what it’s worth, I look forward to seeing you try, Scout Harding.” Then, with a nod, he and his group started to leave. Trailing at the end was an elf younger than all the rest, wearing heavier green armor that looked a couple sizes too big for him. He flashed an encouraging smile and waved.

She waved back, before he was called back to his group with, “Loranil!”

Lace took a moment to reflect. This was an opportunity, actually. Maybe this Loranil could help them with Keeper Hawen. He could pass on their hopes to protect the region. He could tell him that they meant no harm to his clan. But still, it was going to be an uphill battle, when they were immediately greeted with threats… though that wasn’t to say the Freemen’s attacks were any better. She looked to what was once Trina, a heaviness in her throat as she took in the sight. No, the Freemen were definitely worse.

“ _Wel_ come to the Exalted Plains,” Lace muttered sarcastically under her breath. But, then, she remembered to flash an optimistic smile, for the sake of her scouts. She hoped an enthusiastic tone would rile her scouts into volunteering. “So, who wants first dibs on setting up camp?”

Not a single one raised their hand. “I see how it is.” 


End file.
